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The
city is hove to under bare poles.
An incredibly unrealistic decoration made with paperboard paste, a true service ration, with fragments of pumps, wrecks of broken cars, a gun in the phone box. The unit is confusing, and oddly deserted, except by the city that fairly intends nibbling all. From time to time just raise the head, the stars scroll quietly, defying any hope of escaping this piece of a suspended world. The planes slip away, drawn by strings, and then there is a great nonsense, somebody cut the road which served the station. The customers have disappeared suddenly. Now he is railing, mocker, but rebel. Others, males, useless, colourless, ridiculous even in this world of Split, unable to flee this forced exclusion. Oscar B |
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